Yardman's Honeymoon
by Archea
Summary: Lestrade officially proposes to Sherlock. Fluff, chaos and a heatwave ensue. Pairings : Lestrade/Sherlock, John/Sarah, John/Sherlock  bromance , potential Sally/Anthea. Rated T for language.


**Disclaimer **: Sherlock belongs to MM. Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss and probably a few others - I'd advise collective baby-sitting in his case.

**Spoilers **: TGG

**A/N **: Title and multiple POV derived from Dorothy L. Sayers's _Busman's Honeymoon_. Sherlock's command of French comes from his mentioning in canon that his maternal grandmother was a demoiselle Vernet.

**Important **: bold characters here mean that the sentences are in fact crossed-out. I've had to monkey a little with the mail addresses - thank you ffnet.

**Yardman's Honeymoon**

"Marie Turner, and hurry up whoever you are, _Coronation Street_ is on in three minutes."

"Marie! _I'm getting married ones too_!"

"... Martha?"

"I felt I had to tell you first. Oh dear, I'm so thrilled. Sherlock couldn't hope for a nicer, straighter man – well, in the old-fashioned sense – to hold him for better and for worse. Oh my, now I'm hiccupping. What do they put in lavender these days? I must have grabbed the wrong spray."

"Wait, wait, let me get this right. Jumping Beanstalk is jumping the broom? With the grey-haired cove who got Gustav out of the tree for me last time he came round in that _loud_ car of his?"

"Yes to both! They came in for tea just now, fresh from their murder scene. Sherlock pecked me on the cheek and said 'I'm getting married, Mrs Hudson. Biscuit, please', cool as a cucumber sandwich, but there's no fooling an old woman when it comes to sweet amour. So I said 'and none too soon, you big silly!" and hugged the two of them, and Detective Inspector Lestrade said please to call him Gregory, and then of course I asked which of them asked the other."

"Oh, Martha, proposals are so _passé_. Colin says Tony took one look at their tax forms and said, Fuck, we're getting a licence."

« Yes, but the... but Gregory likes to play by the rules, you know. Told me he waited for Sherlock to deduce who the murderer was – retired contorsionist with a bank overdue – before popping the question. Said Sherlock's adrenalin rate was so high by then he'd have agreed to a six-month retreat in a Nepali ashram."

"What did Doctor Watson say? I guess he'll have to relocate now, poor man."

"Lord no, nothing of the sort. None of us could hold on very long without dear John on the premises. No, I'm having the third floor bedsitter pepped up for Gregory though I dare say Sherlock will turn half of it into a lab extension before you can say newlyweds."

"So they're having a wedding?"

"I should hope so ! Sherlock spoke of going to a Registry because he doesn't want his brother to interfere but Gregory said, Hell no, he felt already married to his paperwork, if he had to fill another form he'd make it worth their while. And so they left - to celebrate their first prenuptial bicker, no doubt."

"Tchhh. Look at you lucky girl. Getting a new tenant _and_ a copper at home _and_ a wedding. Be sure to take pics for me, eh?"

"Of course! And we must plan a Married Ones meet-up one of these days. I say, Marie, perhaps we'll be starting a trend?"

* * *

To : Mrs Zenobia Holmes, Devonshire

Sensitive Information Level : 10

Transfer security : 10

Dearest Mummy,

This ought to reach you in about twenty-five minutes. Please do not offer Captain Davies a cup of tea as he is on his way to Iraq, and explaining why the helicopter had to make an emergency stop at Ankara _was_ a tad tricky that last time. I would have called you but reasons political, diplomatical, ideological and **buccal** bilateral make it currently difficult for me to use the phone.

Your memo re Sherlock's wedding I duly perused. Point 1 is somewhat compromised – I've done my honest best, Mummy, really, but the odds are still against the Roman Curia changing their minds about same-sex unions by the 1rst of August. We'll have to make do with the Anglican rite, as Lestrade is C of E and Sherlock's personal creed probably entails being married by a microprocessor.

Upon learning of their... agreement, I summoned the good inspector at once for a little talk. Which began with him ordering shepherd's pie at the Diogenes, will you believe it, and telling me with a grin that he and Sherlock planned to have the wedding luncheon at New Scotland Yard. Little negotiation leverage here, I'm afraid, but at least I've booked them the Guards Chapel which is only a stone's throw away. I'm taking the curate through security drills mysef first thing tomorrow.

Gregory Lestrade is no fool as he has proved time and again in dealing with Sherlock, and I have no doubt as to the depth and sincerity of his attachment. Still, he can be annoyingly tacit at times and, even in a private salon, pointlessly informative at others. **Who ever heard of an engagement nipple ring?** It took three courses and a veiled menace of upping the current bureaucracy procedure at the Met for him to sign the little covenant I had prepared. He raised some inane objections as to the children's name that I pooh-poohed in no time. Of course they must be Holmeses – with Sherlock's intelligence and looks, and the detective inspector's more... stolid qualities, they'll be a credit to the family.

He told me he'd requested a five day leave and was thinking of Umbria for their honeymoon. This ranked among pointless information since a) we had already traced Sergeant Donovan's call to their hotel and b) they are in fact headed to Paris where Lestrade's sister's concierge has booked them a room near the Elysée. You may remember the papers mentioning that little matter of the three left-handed gloves being found stuck at the top of the Presidential gate with a cryptic message **and the hands still in them**. Really, a toddler would have seen through the subterfuge.

I shouldn't worry too much about Sherlock's "delicate constitution" when it comes to the bridal night, Mummy. Lestrade is a tactful man who has probably probed **my brother** the issue with due consideration, and surveillance has been upgraded accordinly.

No, I haven't been in direct contact with Sherlock. Communication is rather limited on his part **discounting the murderous smiley faces**. Indirect contact suggests that he is being his irritating chipper self. Let us hope for the best and pray that he will not spoil all preparations by rendezvousing another schizoid mass-killer on his stag night.

Your devoted son,

Mycroft

* * *

From : t gregson at nsy uk

To : s donovan at nsy uk, j dimmock at nsy uk, a anderson at nsy uk

Re : DI's D-Day coming up

You utter bastards. You soggy-brained sorry sods. There was NO proviso that the pool winner be the one to host the stag party ! You made that up on the spur, you losers, because none of you could figure that five weeks would be more than enough for Lestrade to pluck his guts and kiss his bachelor days goodbye. Serves you right for being a bunch of tight-arsed celibates. Yeah, that goes for you too, Anderson.

That said, perhaps it's all for the best that I monitor the proceedings. And you, my hearties, are going to help me ensure that a good time is had by all, including the fiancé.

Anderson, you're a medical man and a teetotaller – need I say more? I don't mind the lads horsing around with the beer and spirits, but please bloody please, _don't let them mix the booze_. The last stag party I hosted was my own and, Jesus, it took me the better part of a day to restore their virginity to the floors.

Dim, for Pete's sake, keep an eye on the young'uns. Lestrade is no prude and they can revive the Full Monty for all I care, or pin a "Sherly's Angel" poster to his back, but you know how this sort of thing tends to spiral down. Lestrade is their boss and a decent enough sort, and I won't allow for him to be hassled in my digs – full stop.

Sally, you're buying the gift. Oh yeah, you've heard me. D&G handcuffs, Dutch courage, Julie Andrews' complete repertoire or Beckham's mug on pint glasses – your call. And don't give me your "all because I'm a woman" crap, lass, you've been his right arm for longer than I can recall, so if anyone knows about the man's tastes, it's you. Plus, I'm too lazy to haul my ass to Harrod's in all that heat.

Aaaand that's it, folks. See you next Saturday and remember – everybody play good cop or they'll rue the night.

Gregson

* * *

You have 1 new message.

All vows and no play make Sherlock a dull boy.

All work and no pay make Greggy a dead boy.

* * *

_The TRULY personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson._

June 15.

Can't remember which of Lewis Carroll's characters believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, but I suggest he take a post out of my blog. There are days when I've heard up to _ten_ improbable sayings before breakfast, and that's when Sherlock is fully awake. Yesterday's pearls included "Please do not remove the magenta nail lacquer before I tell you to, it's an experiment", "If you were bitten by a mandrill, how would you react?" and "But of course, _coprophagia_!" (which earned him a sharpish rejoinder).

Today's Sherlockiana were more subdued, but still in character. Greg had just extended one of his Bring-Your-Own-Brain invites and Sherlock was wrapping himself around his scarf when he paused, tilted his head to catch my eye, and said "If Lestrade asks me to marry him once I've solved the case, will you agree to remain my flatmate?"

... Hum. Not an easy one, that. Once diagnosed, it could have meant either "I'm not ready yet to commit myself and want to use you as an alibi" or "I am ready to commit myself, but aware that daily cohabitation with Detective Inspector Lestrade, who once told us he'd christened his hoover John Edgar, will probably result in double conjugial homicide (in the best-case scenario)".

Chances were all in favour of diagnosis 2, but it seemed a bit not good to answer in Greg's absence, so I smiled and said "Let's wait and see if he asks you first".

June 16.

Which he did.

Can't say I was much surprised. All right, "eyes have they, but they cannot see" is Sherlock's wail of woe about his entourage, but in this domain you'd have to be bat-blind to miss the clues. It took me less than a week after the Pink case to wonder if Sherlock's restless waiting for Lestrade's texts might have something to do with the texter, or watch his face grow another inch when told by Dimmock that the DI was AWOL, or glance at his fingers cupped tightly around said DI's ID badge while he sauntered away.

Lestrade's total absence of remark the next time we met was clue supremo, like that early case Sherlock is always raving about, where the dog didn't bark and made all the difference. (Though I'd cast Greg as an Old English bulldog rather than a police Alsatian.)

And then – the pool. That moment when the little dots pricking our faces like a malevolent rash popped off and Moriarty too, seeing it before we did – before Sherlock let his arm drop and said "That will be him". I thought – but there was a low exultant key to that _him_ that couldn't mean Mycroft, and Gregory Lestrade was already crossing the beige-tiled floor, his mouth a hard still line, holding the submachine gun with which he'd taken down the first sniper. I'd grown so used to seeing him rooted aside on our previous crime scenes, and Sherlock flitting about, that the reversal felt strangely odd, yet oddly right. He stopped right before us – from where I sat, I could see Sherlock's shoulders cave a bit as reaction set in – and suddenly, my flatmate was giving a passable imitation of his five feet eight _morphing_ into Greg's winter coat, and Greg had his gunless arm around him.

He was saying something too, which I couldn't catch because the stage had filled with extras and Mycroft was holding out his hand, babbling something or other about the Litvan Embassy Secretary, and could Sherlock please refrain from advertising a secret Defence project on a public site in the future, he'd be so grateful.

The next morning at breakfast, Sherlock was turning a charred piece of toast in his hands, looking at it absently. I remembered the old, old words that some of us recited not so long ago in fear and doubt, that those who walk through the fire will not get burned. But I didn't say anything, because it's not for me to state the improbable. It's not why I'm here, living with him.

Yeah, I'll be staying on a bit. With him. Them. Hope to God Sarah won't mind, but she and Sherlock rather see eye to eye in that regard. Doctor, blogger, cook, colleague, and now lightkeeper – she'll probably tell me to ask for a raise.

June 19.

Things progressing nicely on the wedding front. Was promoted Best Man by the powers in command and told that the main offensive would take place at the groom's HQ to save time and bother. (Sherlock's words. I think he actually expects to be married on his next crime scene, kneeling to the corpse and going all "yes, yes, with my body I thee worship... now _this_ body here, etc." until the Met Chaplain either implodes or switches into the Prayer for the Dead.)

Must think of a suitable dress uniform – and must thank Greg for planning the big do in synch with the summer sales.

June 22.

Nothing much to report. Sarah agreed to a shopping spree, Mycroft kidnapped Greg for a change and the evening forecast is predicting a heatwave.

June 26.

What on earth does one give a high-functioning sociopath on the occasion of his wedding? Greg is easy enough to shop for, but Sherlock would drive even the Great Herkules to seek counseling.

I did, with little result so far.

Mike said "Identical ties" – but tie sounds too bloody symbolic. Molly wiped a tear and said "A cat" – but Mrs Hudson was adamant about having two felines on the premises. Mrs Hudson then showed me her gift, a book of self-compiled recipes, complete with a concordance of aphrodisiac herbes, cross-referenced according to season. I stand defeated.

Unless... but Sarah caught me glancing at some of the medical apparatus and said "Absolutely not, unless you want to be sofa-cuddler extraordinaire for the next six weeks".

Ah well. I can always knit them a tea cosy.

June 28.

Greg called at 6 to say most of the paperwork had been dealt with, though one clerk flatly refused to believe that Sherlock was called Sherlock and insisted on spelling it Charlotte. He dropped at the flat later to celebrate and roared over the knitting predicament. I asked what the groom's gift to the groom would be and he said we'd know on Monday, which Sherlock deduced happily meant he'd spotted a nice serial murder case somewhere out of his jurisdiction and was waiting for the resident DI's thumbs-up before he sent us over.

Never thought I'd be part and parcel of a wedding gift. Guess it's never too late to raise one's self-esteem.

July 2.

One good thing about being Best Man to a self-proclaimed sociopath, you don't have to plan a stag do. Greg had his tonight and Sherlock merely huffed « My compliments to the Neandertals », then whipped up his computer and started agonizing loudly over multiple accounts of stag revels that all involved juvenile strippers coated in marmite or communal shagging to the sound of Gloria Gaynor. I locked both computers and put on « Midsommer Murders ».

It was quarter past one when the stag staggered in, clutching a pack of Beckham-shaped pint glasses to his heart and muttering somberly about refreshing a mind or two on pot-bust procedures. To my surprise, Sherlock never said a word. Instead, he turned off the telly and fetched his violin.

They made a rather sweet picture, if truth be told - Greg plopped down on the couch, his head in Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock playing the Fauré melodies he has been practising lately. Mrs Hudson came in with herbal tea at two and we toasted them in silence, then draped a blanket carefully over the couch, picked up the violin from the floor, and tiptoed back to our respective rooms.

July 4

"Here you go, sweetheart. Serial madman in Surrey, still unidentified, has launched upon a revival of ye old public execution rituals. He's done Roman and Middle Ages and is now in full Renaissance swing according to Ashdown. Have fun!"

And there we went, to admire a body impeccably hanged, drawn and quartered by 113 degrees Fahrenheit. Sherlock came back in high spirits, saying we should get a pig's carcase to "experiment". Ugh ! Must beg either Greg to go a little less romantic or God to send us a thunderstorm.

July 9

Bloody hell. Someone's spilled the beans to the tabloids and they've cooked up the usual tripe. Came to the station this morning to find Greg's face gracing the news stand under a two-inch thick headline ("Policeman's Toy-Boy Gets His Due"). The anonymous author did not name Sherlock, but described the fiancé as a teenaged necrophiliac brought on the sly to crime scenes, where he and the DI indulged in unspeakable orgies monitored by an ex-Army Doctor recently dismissed from the ranks.

Got home early and was sorely tempted to dig up the Sig and pay a little visit to the editor-in-chief, but the mischief was done and Mycroft's people would probably ensure that it remained one of its kind. Sherlock was pacing to and fro, confiding to his slippers in hissy mutters, and when I said that Lestrade's CS would hardly demob his star officer on account of this bilge, snapped "Obviously not, don't be such an idiot. That's not the point, John. That's not the issue". His phone rang before I could ask what the issue was, and ten seconds later he was saying _Ne dis pas de bêtises_ [Don't talk nonsense], so I knew I wouldn't get an answer that night.

They have this little habit of breaking into French under my nose that I found so damn annoying. Before I understood it for what it was - a way to reach out to the other, childhood memories uniting to batter down all the layers of difference that age and class and temper have stacked up between them. Now I find it heartwarming.

Plus, it does much to improve my French, though _J'ai envie de toi, mon gosse, ici, maintenant, comme un fou_ (1) won't get me very far, professionally or otherwise.

(1) Want you, baby, here and now, want you to pieces (to a male interlocutor).

July 10

Well, I have my answer. Moriarty's text came at the end of my afternoon shift, causing me to swear loudly and copiously before five dehydrated elderlies.

This time, Sherlock called his brother.

I found them facing each other like two very tetchy book-ends and knew better than to interfere. While Mycroft was urging Sherlock to "differ your nuptials for the good of everyone involved" and Sherlock griped back "stop treating this like some third-rate morganatic affair", I retrieved my headphones, turned on the telly, and selected a rival show.

Pulling off a plug now and then to check on their progress.

The Romulan Commander was close to making out with Mr Spock when they collapsed back into their chairs, both toneless, and reached a gentlemen's agreement.

Sherlock gets to get married. He also gets access to whatever information Mycroft's services have compiled on Jim Moriarty, and his fiancé gets a top-notch Praetorian guard until the Holmes brothers get Jim.

Mycroft gets to give Sherlock away.

It was nice to see them shake hands on this, even though Sherlock did try to tower over Mycroft, all five feet eight in his stockinged feet. But then, boys will be boys, as Mrs Hudson always says when opening the fridge.

_EDIT Lovely sentiment, Doctor, I'm sure. For your private record, I'm six feet two and I wear alpaca socks_.

July 13

Helped Greg move his things to the bedsitter, then stood him a beer at the George's. He had Guinnes, I had a bitter. The Praetorians had orangeade.

"They're good lads," he said, glancing at them approvingly. "See the guy on the right, with the scuttling hairline and navy-blue trainers? He loaned me a submachine gun once in a pool. Wish I'd got him to renew the lease when that tosser wrote his trash on Sherlock – in for a penny, in for a pounding."

"Sure," I said. "All the same, we don't want another headline about the British police promoting shotgun weddings, do we?"

He chuckled, and I couldn't help asking if they'd traced the party who'd slandered him to the press. Couldn't say it in so many words, but I did wonder if his team was implicated. Greg is a man of faith in more fields than one, and it would have been a nasty blow if one of his flock had sold him. But as it turned out, the culprit was another DI who had bungled one of his cases and needed some happier peer to take it out on.

Sibling rivalry, everywhere.

"So, John, do me a favour and cut it out in your speech," Greg concluded. "I'm showing Mummy Holmes my better profile and as far as she's concerned, the Yard is the latest, smartest daycare center for gifted second-borns. Everyone is under strict orders not to let her near my office, so be good and play along with the kiddies."

A speech? No one had mentioned a speech before, let alone a speech addressed the Holmes faction. Christ, but I miss Afghanistan some days.

"That's right," he grinned, reading me loud and clear. Bastard. "Mum is the word."

July 17.

Sarah snapped her fingers twice at my face at lunch break and said "That's it. I've had it. I'm taking you to my mother's house in Brighton for a long week-end, and if you so much as breathe "wedding" before Monday, _I_'m shooting you dead, John Hamish Watson."

July 22.

Thank god for women. And Brighton.

July 23.

Got a text from Sherlock asking me to retrieve the rings at the jeweller's, as he was busy quartering his pig. Couldn't resist having a peep at the engravings. The smaller ring, Sherlock's, reads "Best mate to you, love, so help me God" with the marriage date. Greg's ring reads "183592-44" which doesn't make any sense, so must be some extra-top-superly-secret code of emergency thoughtfully provided by Mycroft.

July 27.

Rain ! At long last, RAIN! I'm starting to believe we might in fact survive the month.

July 30.

Not all of us, sadly. The Guards' Chapel phoned this morning to say that Father Puffles, who'd prepared Greg and Sherlock for marriage and was to officiate, had called in sick. "Nervous exhaustion," Greg said while giving me a lift to the practice. "Truth is, the poor sod probably od'd on theological arguing with Sherlock. Knew he was doomed when he couldn't find a logical reason for the Almighty to create Sherl in the first place."

Meanwhile, the Chapel has sent a stand-in called Father McKane who is being cleared with Mycroft. A "more resilient young chap" in Mycroft's words, which could mean anything from a callused cynic to a six foot two rugby amateur. He will survive.

July 31.

"Stay with him," Greg said. "As things stand, you'll be seeing quite enough of me in the next twenty years. And I'm fetching my sister at Gatwick."

So I made tea and an omelet, and ate the omelet, and we watched telly for a bit. Sherlock texted DI Ashdown to arrest the school director's elder sister. I logged onto my blog and found thirty-two comments congratulating Sherlock on his impending nuptials, plus one suggesting that he sell his favours to a younger man, "a self-made funeral entrepreneur with an open mind". Didn't mention any of them, but let him read, huddled in the sofa, until he closed his book and crossed his arms behind his head. He spoke under his breath, but I knew the words before his mouth released them.

"John. Am I acting wrong in wanting this?"

I went to sit on the sofa arm and rested a hand on his elbow. "No," I said, putting as much emphasis I could in the word. "Lestrade has been in the force for twenty years or so. He knew danger before he met you. He knew what danger lay in wanting you. And he knows what he's doing now."

Sherlock turned his head to look at me. « Not a very good question, then. »

I smiled. "No," I nodded. "But a good answer to a splendidly idiotic question. Go to bed now, we're getting up early. It will take three hours and an IV drip if necessary, but I'm not letting you go to church without breakfast."

It's turned very late, but I still can't find in me to sleep. I've taken out the Sig and I'm oiling it because – well. These two are my friends. Better be prepared than repaired, the ex-soldier's motto.

* * *

From : tyranno_rex at hotmail com

To : jenny anderson at gmail com

Re : re : Marrying off your Boss

Really, Jen, it's not even as if there was anything to tell. Trust Holmes to remain true to self and make a total muck-up of procedure even with his own marriage. It was the _messiest_ affair I've ever seen and I congratulate myself on being well out of it, so don't expect me to clap and simper. You women are all the same when it comes to weddings.

Well, I got to the Chapel at eleven _sharp_ as specified on the card and soon understood why when I had to show my ID twice and nearly strip to my underwear before they let me in. Charming. Of course Holmes has always been a bit of a drama queen. He and his deluxe brother must have planned a big fuss to show what a VIP they are, then cut down on their expenses by renting the Yard gratis for the buffet.

Lestrade has no family to speak of apart from a married sister, so the place was filled with Holmeses of all ages and varieties, dressed to the nines and behaving as if they had a monopoly on Tourette's disorder. Some kept fidgeting and firing bizarre questions at one another, such as 'How's the monography on the Babbage machine going, Hepzibah?" or « "Still eating Brussels sprouts at breakfast, Everard, I _see"_. Others sat slumped on their benches, looking up at the ceiling with intensely glazed eyes. Meanwhile, Holmes was making a show of staying closeted in a black limousine with tinted windows, though he did open the door once or twice, only to be hooked and pulled back by something that looked like an umbrella handle. How fin-de-race is that?

I was pointed to one of the back benches by a posh young woman who kept fiddling with a BlackBerry while she placed us – Tourette contamination, I dare say. The placing was perfectly insane, too - I still can't understand why Sergeant Donovan, by all accounts my colleague and equally ranked partner, made it to the second pew while I had to rub elbows with the constables and a few gaga Holmeses. Still, we all ended up more or less seated and Lestrade crossed the nave with John Watson, the best man, to the vestry where the priest was waiting. Next thing I knew, Sally Donovan was practically trampling over Mme Lepierre to join them.

The organ piped out something suavely gospelly to pass the time, and we all waited for the groom to reappear. Instead, there was a sudden tremendous BOOM, as if someone was trying out a battering ram on the vestry door. Then another. Then another, and someone – Gregson, I think – said "Horse before carriage, what?" rather loudly. The organ broke into Wagner's _Lohengrin_ march to cover the ruckus, Holmes materialized at the door, pat on cue, and dived into the aisle only to freeze after a few steps upon finding that he would be greeted by an empty altar.

Then the vestry door opened and Lestrade sprinted to his post with the priest, followed by Watson and Donovan, both looking dishevelled and rather red in the face. The Holmes hemisphere began to hum like a swarm of well-tailored bees and the groom-bride stomped down the aisle with a suspiscious face, pivoting right and left to scan the benches in his stride.

The priest had somehow managed to launch the service while Lohengrin and Holmes were still racing each other, the brother in tow, and he now stuttered his way through the vows over a steady buzz of _sotto voce_ Holmesian deducing. How Lestrade, with his age and position, could let himself be talked into such a harlequinade is beyond me. Marrying a psychopath is bad enough without having the day ruined by the psycho's next and best. Well, it's not as if we hadn't given him fair warning.

It was soon over, thank god! And I wanted to ask Donovan what all the commotion had been about, but she'd been swallowed up into the usual melee. I myself had a bear of a headache, so I just waved Lestrade from afar and headed home. Chewing runny petits fours probably sponsored by the British taxpayer is not my idea of Sunday fun.

Speaking of which, I'd appreciate to know when exactly you're planning to come home. The fridge is two-third empty and Mrs Potts forgot the milk _again_ this morning.

Yours,

Anderson

* * *

11 : 16 – What's going on here ? SH

11 : 18 – Sherlock, please. Explanations can wait till you're a married man.

11 : 20 –Greg still panting, yet didn't have to jog down the aisle. John's tie capsized to the left. Question repeated. SH

11 : 23 - Better answer Father M first, love. Asked you twice already if you will or won't.

11 : 27 - SHERLOCK, WILL YOU PLEASE CONCENTRATE ON YOUR VOWS. YOU'RE MAKING THE WHOLE FAMILY UPSET.

11 : 29 – Piss off, Mycroft. Was it Jim ? SH

11 : 31 - THAT'S MUMMY TO YOU, YOUNG MAN. ENCHANTÉE, MONSIEUR LESTRADE. COULD I TROUBLE YOU TO HOLD MY SON'S HAND FOR THE NEXT TWENTY MINUTES?

11 : 33 - Pleasure, ma'am. Sherl, we're being cued for rings.

11 : 35 - All phones off NOW, guys, and that's a bloody order.

11 : 45 - Heeeeere's Jimmy !

11 : 49 - Oh come on, darling, don't sulk. Seriously. A greyhead with a checked shirt and a West Country accent? You should be getting down on your knees to thank me. Yummy yummy.

12 : 00 - ... Hullooo ? Anybody here ?

* * *

Hhr-hm. Me again. Hullo, tape. Guess what? It's five a.m. and this girl's sloshed to the gills with Veuve Cliquot and – and – and – and – alone, right, like before, except – not quite like. There's the light, for one thing. First time I've left the blinds up, and the office window's like _melting_ under the hot pale flow. Hot champagne flow.

So. So it's not gonna be like the other times. I'm not even gonna erase the tape after and store it back with the others, against the next witness recording. Because I. Because I want me a souvenir when all the tomorrows are back and the blinds fall down again.

"Take your time, start where you want to start." That's what we tell them, poor sods. But where does it start, a tale like this? I still can't – fathom it. Yeah. Told him as much the day I crashed in here after he'd asked the Freak, asked him before all of us, and he followed after a bit. Stood right here with his arms crossed, looking at me, never saying a word. I let him have it, then. "Why?" I said. "He'll fuck you high and dry, sir, pardon my French. He'll have his fill of whatever it is he wants from you and leave you cold out. He may be God's own IQ test made flesh, but he'll still bitch you and bust you in the end, see if he doesn't, because they forgot every human fibre when they fleshed him out and, _Christ_, sir, why are you doing this to yourself?"

Meaning, to us. Well. To me. When you work this long with a man like Lestrade, the frontiers always end up a little frazzled. One day you're Mum, pulling him out of the terrible press confs where he _always_ ends up with a foot up his mouth, then it's one of the Andy days and you're Baby Sis, being fed coffee and good words, and the day after, you might be falling a little for the man. Day in day out, but everyday the trust, the – warmth of being with him.

So it all came down to "Why?" And he smiled. Lestrade. Just looked at me and smiled, and – it's like the light in here. You'd never think so much sun could fit in this hole, but it does, and I felt a hundred just looking at him. So I grabbed my bag and ran a line home, never turning my head when he called out "Sergeant!".

We didn't speak of it, after. I did everything according to rule. Bought him the stupid pint glasses, cheered with the others, got an invite. But inside, something snagged. Something wouldn't give. Freak showed up again with the odd civilians that everyone knew were not civilians and kissed his eyes right under my nose, Greg's tired smiling eyes. His flicked to me across the office partition, but still it jammed, and I let the blinds down.

Day in day out, and today I was walking into a church with Andy – shaggy joke, that. Hah. But here's where I must really be careful to remember. Because that was when everything, and I mean _everything_, went, like, topsy-turvy.

To begin with, there was the girl. Tall and dark, Freak the Elder's tagalong. She shooed Andy to the back and I was following when she slipped her hand up my sleeve, shaking her head. Her hand tugged me down the aisle, all the way to the front pews, so I said "Look, I'm not family". But all she said was "Oh, yeah". The church was a modern affair, one of those glass-walled pyramid, and the light poured right where she stood, all around her hair so that it looked dark and radiant at the same time. How long since someone had looked at me as in _looked_ and said "Oh, yeah" ?

I meant to ask her if that was Lestrade's orders, to put me there, but she was gone and there he was, crossing the aisle. He passed her – she tall and poised, he a little flurried in his Sunday suit – and – and – the snag, it gave. All I felt was that I had to go and speak to him before the music kicked in, so I rushed outand followed where he and John Watson had gone.

Turned out this was the vestry, and the civilian - ha! - at the door wouldn't let me in, but I flapped my Yard badge and pushed through. Inside was the priest, stocky, square shoulders, what they called "the muscular Christian" in Gran's time. The DI and John Watson were with him, shuffling their feet. Greg said "Sally?", all surprised, and the organ struck, and the priest went to the door, saying "Well, Mr Lestrade. _Toime_ to face the music, right?"

He turned round, pulling his arms into his sleeves kimono-wise, and that's the last thing I saw before John _busted_ my field of vision, hurling himself across the room and pinning the man to the door like an oversized butterfly. I gasped, Greg froze, and the large priest just tussled himself free. His arms were no longer up his sleeves. One of them held a compact litle gun with a silencer, but John slammed him into the door again before he could do more than hold it. The door was being shaken on the other side, but it was locked and all I could do was join the fray when Greg dived in, too.

We all lurched over one another, pounding the wardrobe door for good measure, before the man gave in, toppling down on the floor. Which was good, because John could slam him from a less handicapped angle. The wardrobe door had swung open, so I looked inside for something to tie him with, and struck lucky at once. There was a coil of ropes just waiting to be uncoiled from another tall man tossed into a corner and blinking acceleratedly at me.

By the time we'd straightened out the situation and the real Father McKane, the organ was hammering Richard bloody Wagner across the door, so we unlocked it and let the faux civilian deal with the faux pastor. Lucky for us he'd decided not to kill the priest at once, waiting till he'd shot John and Greg to frame him as the murderer or something, else Greg's wedding would have taken a pounding too. But no, on it rolled, a little wobbly here and there, though Father McKane made a brave show of it if you think he'd spent the night gagged and half choked by his own cassocks, poor man.

Huh-huh, time to change the tape.

Hullo, new tape. Well, blame the adrenalin if everything began to rev up in a whirling joyride after that. We all poured out of the church and into the Yard's function room - which had sprouted green plants overnight that everyone in touch with the Drugs squad hailed at once as potted pot. Everyone not busy tucking in, that is. The food was everywhere, I mean _everywhere_, the kind you only see in those high-budget Victorian period films with Meryl Streep. The brother was presiding at the buffet, stuffing the CO with aspic, and I heard Dimmock say the coffee machine in the main hall was now delivering chilled Irish coffee, but that must have been the wine. The wine was juicy, too.

I remember hugging the groom, well, the prosocial one, saying again and again "I hope you'll be very happy, sir, and I'm never ever babysitting your kids". Which made him laugh and answer that one enfant terrible was quite enough in his life. Hugging John, too, asking him what had tipped him into action in the vestry. He said he couldn't say, really, but the Irish brogue and the straight military bearing together had been a bit too much, and let's have another glass before we frogmarch Sherlock to the dance floor, oh yes, the British Government has had a dance floor put in the Clubs and Vice department, can you beat that?

And when I got to the right floor, there was the girl.

Still tall and dark, raising her eyes from her BlackBerry. And didn't she – oh, yeah. Didn't she look like a blackberry herself, the kind Gran wouldn't let me pick in the fields, time ago, dark and shiny and always too high for my reach anyway. She was looking at me and I knew I wanted to ask her if she'd done it on purpose, placing me at the church, but the wine was humming in my ears. And the music, pushing the wine further and further into my blood. She looking, and all I could say was "You have great hair".

I half-expected her to say "Yeah" again, with the same easy poise. But she didn't. Instead, she lifted a hand to my own hair, that was all fleecy and wild by the time, yeah, and grazed it with her fingertips. And then jutted her chin a little towards the music, and said "Dance?".

God, but I'm sleepy. Perhaps I'll stop the tape now and let the blinds down. Or perhaps not.

Andy would snort and call me contaminated or something, but you know what ? Fuck you, Anderson Anderson. And don't expect home service soon, from what I've heard. It's probably the wine, and it's not as if I stand a hair's chance of seeing her again, but I don't care, I don't.

I've had my day in the sun. And I'm glad.

* * *

You have 1 new text message.

Sir,

Uninvited guest's removal : settled.

Father McKane's therapy fees : ditto.

Rerouting of surveillance team to Paris : ditto.

Yard coffee machine purging : ditto.

Respectful request for Sunday off within the next 21 days : 1.

* * *

Hey John,

Greetings from Umbria! Your strategizing was spot on, man – we made it to Spoleto twenty-four hours before the Praetorians and put the privacy to good use. Knew the pastoral siestas would bore Sherl before long, but he's quite happy finding out who broke into the host's cellar, and nicked the eight bottles of Torgiano Rosso, and put the host's niece up the duff. And before you ask, I'm saying "amazing" at all the right places and keeping him in a sunhat.

Cheers, and I'll take first milk shift when we're back.

Greg

John,

No WiFi coverage. No mobile coverage. Three-course meals with non-optional pasta. THE SUN. You might want to hide that riding-crop very carefully before I get home.

SH

**I lacked a proper opportunity to tell you**

**It seems that, as always, you have managed to**

**If that Moran fellow had succeeded in**

Thank you, John.

Sherlock

FINIS


End file.
